We Stand on the Shoulders of Giants
by cities
Summary: The children of Greece have a hard time loving their godly parents.. /Otherwise entitled, Five Times the Greek Demigods Wanted to be Their Parent, and One Time They Didn't\
1. and they drink the stars

**and they drink the stars**

**Competion: The Oneshot Challenge by Tackattack**

**Length: 576 words**

* * *

He never wanted to be a hero. Some people do. They want the adulation. The praise. The endless fawning and respect. The power. They thought it would help them.

He knew better. Gods, there was nothing he knew better. The praise is empty, the respect is hollow. He is hollow. He is a shell. Not that he was ever truly a hero.

He watched as she died, the one with pride in her heart and storms in her eyes. He watched as she persevered. She took the knife for him, and the gods know he wished she hadn't. He watched her lose hope. Lose her life.

"You can't, you can't die. Your my best friend. You can't. You just fucking can't."

She looks at him, with a broken heart in her eyes and a sadness in her heart. It breaks her, and he knows it. He isn't a hero. He's a murderer. Her blood is on his hands.

They all cheer, afterwards. The Hero of Olympus, they call him. But he knows better. Oh gods, he knows better. Deep in every one of their hearts, a bitterness nestles. He didn't do good enough. He let them down, because this person is dead, and that one is gone.

They cheer, but it falls on deaf ears. He doesn't hear them. All he hears are the shouts of condemnation, every torturous bit. Because he killed her, and he let them die.

* * *

When the daughter of the doves arrives at camp, he spends every waking moment with her. She reminds him if the girl, the one with storms in her eyes. They would have been friends. They would have been best friends.

They were so fucking alike, so could you blame him for taking solace in her?

He feels despicable, and gods it hurts, but he can't tell the difference now. They are the same. They both cry, "Evil! Evil!" He is a murderer. He is a cheater. He is despicable.

* * *

When the moon-eyed girl - the goddess - vists camp, it hasn't gotten any better. In fact, it is about to get worse, because with the goddess comes the tree-scented girl. The one with lightning in her fingertips.

Gods, it hurts to see her again. It hurts to breathe the the same air as him. She is a coward. He is despicable.

He sees the glances she shoots him when she thinks he can't see her. He hears the words she whispers when she thinks he can't hear her.

"I never should have abandoned you."

It doesn't help, to know her regret. He is still despicable. She is still a coward.

He sees her, at nights. They go to the now abandoned Big House - after Chirons death, it fell into disuse. They do it because the pain is to much. Because godsdamnit, they never asked for this.

These nights, he can forget the pain. Forget his sins. He can love once more. They are the only thing left in his life.

Because, fuck, it's painful. He barely gets by. He thinks of ending it often.

He doesn't. He waits for the dusk, and then they drink the stars.

They say that everyone fears someone. That one face triggers that primal instinct. He doesn't fear anyone. Nay, the only one he ever feared was dead. Now, all he feared was the dawn.

* * *

**Obviously, I've stomped out canon here. Oh well. My first attempt at a non-canon pairing. Er...if you caught any mistakes, I bid thee tell.**


	2. hearts of shattered glass

**Written for TackAttcacks Oneshot challenge. **

**Prompt: Two random word: Tree and Lightning.**

**Rating: T for Language, Character Death, and hobos.**

* * *

Never give up.

Never feel fear.

Never surrender.

* * *

Three phrases haunt you. The code of a Greek demigod. Ever since those bastards burned down Camp Half-Blood, it's been harder and harder to follow these rules.

You don't feel the cold. Chiron trained you not to feel the elements. To feel the elements was to feel fear. You know, though, that you need warmth to survive. This isn't fear. It's logic. That's what you tell yourself.

You sit by the flames, but it hurts. They remind you. You failed to protect the camp. The bastards burned it down, because you were weak.

If you are weak, why do you bother with the rules? You need a sense of rigidity in your life. Lack of order is chaos. Chaos brings death, chaos brings pain. Pain is weakness.

To feel weakness is the ultimate shame. To feel weakness is to be disgraced.

Never surrender. Never surrender. You don't know how many free Greeks are left. Maybe it's just you. Just you in this cold, icy world. You hope it isn't.

You aren't lonely. To be lonely is to be weak. No, you are logical. To have allies is to have more people to fight the Romans with. In this world, friends are death. Friends are traitors. Just like him. Just like Jason.

You rub your hands. It takes your mind off the burning, off the smell of the flaming flesh. It's logic, the flame. Annabeth would have liked that. Logic. Sheshould agree with you. It's a shame she's dead.

You wish the gods would help you. Unfortunately, they don't want to risk an inner dilemma, fighting with themselves. Roman deity versus Greek deity? Self versus self? Messy.

Lightning sparks through the air. You can't hear it - you have earplugs in. You can't see it - your pupils are focused on the fire. You can feel it. You can smell it. Burning ozone, crackling madly.

You are the lightning. You are the daughter of Zeus.

No one can face your wrath. At least, the hobo sleeping across from you can't.

You swear. How the fuck did life come to this?

You remember when you were a tree, when time had been so slow. Even that was better than this life.

You scrounge for leftovers, fight with homeless dudes, and above all, have absolutely no neo-punk absolutism to listen to.

You hope Jason's life is worse. It's not hate. Hate is emotion. Emotion is weakness. It's logic. If the Roman's life is bad. He won't be able to hurt you. It's logic. Logic. Not weakness.

Then and there, you swear revenge.

* * *

You watch the wolf warily. You know it's one of theirs. Being in the Hunt allows you to know these things. You wince.

You should've known better than to bring up the Hunt.

Pain. Sorrow. Emotion.

Weakness.

This is what surrounds your memories of the Hunt. You can't allow for weakness. Weakness is poison. It corrupts your body, and takes control of your senses. Weakness turns you into nothing more than a common mortal.

You wonder if Chiron had any weakness. He didn't seem like it. He was a centaur, though. Did he feel pain for the passing of his race? It didn't matter. Chiron was dead, along with every other centaur alive.

You turn your attention back to the wolf. You wonder why it hasn't struck, yet. Weakness. Your cursed ADHD was a weakness she couldn't get rid of. If the monster - for it was one - was smart, it would have pounced while you were distracted.

You sneer. This will be like plucking a daisy from an empty glass.

It lunges. You thrust. No weakness here. Just drive. Determination.

* * *

You stand along the edge of the precipice. Looking down, you shudder. You don't want to fall down there. You try to tell yourself that your fear of heights isn't weakness. It's logic. You don't want to fall from here.

But you are wrong. It is weakness, and you know it.

Weakness is to be expelled. Weakness is to be left at the threshold, or thrown over the edge of Mount Taygetos. You brace yourself for the jump.

* * *

Your quest seems crazy to the god of the winds. To take down, and to _kill_ the son of Jupiter? When you tell him your heritage, he shuts up. He even lets you have a spare wind bag.

You grumble. You should be able to finish this by yourself. To go to a god...this is weakness.

You grit your teeth. You mount the flying dinghy. Letting a small burst of air out of the bag, you try not to look down. Looking down will lead to weakness. Weakness is fatal.

* * *

You land in Berkeley. Passing unnoticed here is simple. Many flamboyant characters parade through the streets.

You hitch a ride in a gay rights protest car. The drivers agree to take you to the edge of town. They look at you expectantly. You glower at them. They look miffed, but they take you anyway.

Looking around the bush for a campsite, you trip over a golden weapon. You know their camp is around here somewhere.

You settle down for the night, weapon in hand. You have to find the entrance to the Roman camp, but wouldn't put it them to set up guards.

You gaze into the crackling embers of your fire. You remember that night. It seemed so long ago. The voices in your head start to fade, and echo.

You look at the stars, instead, for a while.

* * *

The guards were easy knockouts. Well, kills, anyway. No room for compassion. No room for weakness.

You sneak in, through the tunnel. Years with Lady Artemis have made you light on your feet.

You grit your teeth. You forget the Hunters, just for a bit. No room for any weakness on this task, not even that.

Stealing through the camp is also easy. They don't expect anything, as they took out their enemies on the eastern sea-board. Or so they thought.

Lightning courses through you, dangerously. They can see you. They _could_ see you, fired up so.

You're lucky they don't.

You are the lightning. You are the Tree. Nothing can stop you now.

You walk boldly into the Principia. No one is there. You go up to the roof, and pull out your bow. You spy the traitor quickly. He sits with a girl. You watch him. You wait.

You don't want to accidently kill the girl. It isn't weakness. It's logic. She would be framed for the murder.

You keep watching. You watch them laugh. They exhibit weakness.

You sneer. They are foolish. They are weak.

They lean in. Your eyes soften. Maybe they aren't weak. Maybe you are.

Yeah, you are weak. You're fear of heights. Your loneliness. Your pain at the loss of the Hunters. Your love of your brother - because deep down, you really do love him.

Your eyes harden. Weakness is to be eradicated. You look around. A pine tree. Tall, majestic. High enough to kill someone. You make your way over, and climb up.

You sit on the tallest branches, for a while. You think about your decision. You look down. Ironic, fitting even, that your life should end here, at a pine tree. It isn't Mount Thaygetos, but it'll do.

You remember when you first came out of your tree. You had climbed it with Percy. At the top, you laughed at his failed attempts to follow you. You slipped. You flailed, reached out, and caught a branch. You save yourself.

This time, you don't.

* * *

**angstangstangstangstangstang stangstangstangstangstangstm ff. **

**Total Word Count: 1,313**


	3. a broken melody beats through our hearts

A broken melody beats through our heads

Written for TackAttack's Oneshot Challenge

Prompt: Piper/Annabeth friendship pairing

Dedication: To whichever kid decided to take human's first route to bliss in the pool during practice, giving me more time to finish this.

* * *

When she first came up to you, you were reminded of a book you read, about anthropomorphic owls. Maybe it was silly, thinking about that sort of thing when you nearly plunged to your death, your "boyfriend" suffering from amnesia - or something else, and you turn out to be the spawn of half-begotten crazies from ancient times.

* * *

When she takes you on the complimentary camp tour, sponsored by one drunken man in a track suit, you can tell her heart isn't in it. The way she stands, slumped, it reminds you of the movies you used to watch in private screenings, the ones with the depressed kids who commit suicide. You don't know her well at that point, but you understand her pain.

* * *

She pretty much ignores you, and your friends, after that. Maybe you guys remind her of the Percy kid she was looking for. She could tell, as a daughter of the love goddess, that he was more than something to her. You feel her pain all the more at that point.

* * *

You go around camp, trying to figure out exactly who Percy Jackson is, anyway. You haven't gathered much—son of the sea god, horse whisperer, swordmaster extraordinaire. You have to go to your own cabin, the one you hate, to find the answer you were looking for.

* * *

When you finally figure out their relationship, this whole demigod thing doesn't seem as bad. You can still have a life, you can still love—Gods forbid in her mother's heart wrenching ways. You can have consistency.

* * *

She is the first to congratulate you, after you ascend to the "throne" of the Aphrodite cabin. In some ways, it warms your heart. She is still sentient, and you are the one who she comes to visit. Of course, maybe the other two just remind her of Percy.

* * *

The two of you work together for the next few months, striving to finish the warship. You have an understanding, something none of the other workers have with her. You wonder if maybe you are the only one thinking about her, or the only one who she aknowledges as a real person—Leo's jokes don't do much to help his cause.

* * *

Before you take off, you can sense her excitement. She prowls around, like a caged tiger. She takes one of Clarrise's taunts lightly, not kicking the daughter of war's ass for insulting Percy. It's improvement, but she's still fragile. You all walk on eggshells around her. She knows, but she doesn't care.

* * *

On the flight, nobody speaks. Everyone is nervous, each about their own little thing. Even you stop worrying about Annabeth, and worry about yourself.

* * *

The city of New Rome dawns before you. It's just as majestic as Jason described. Moreso, actually, as Jason hadn't really described it that well. You watch silently as Annabeth paces the deck, nervous. Her hands grip the the railing, the lack of blood causing them to go white. One look reaches across her face—hope.

Looking at her, you realize what true loyalty is—though the others assure you Percy Jackson is the real master at it. Maybe she picked up a few tips. Looking at her makes you wish a wish you wish you never wished. Not because of the insane amount of wishes in that sentence, but because you honest-to-goodness despise your mother. You wish, that for just one second, you held the power of love in your hand. That you could bind Percy Jackson to your friend, because you know if he has someone else you'll march right up to him, son of Poseidon or not, and kick his unfaithful ass.

* * *

Definitely above the word limit. I won't bother checking, though.

I don't particularly like Piper, but iffy prompts will be iffy prompts


	4. a web of thoughts does not help her fate

a web of thoughts does not help her fate

Written for TackAttack's Oneshot Challenge

Prompt: The Only One He Ever Feared

Words: 500 exactly.

When her mother practically disowns her, she nearly cries, even though she knows it isn't _really_ her mom. Hearing those words, though, break a barrier down inside of her. She pledges then and there to never be like her mom, a two-faced immortal—even if it isn't her mom's fault.

* * *

The thought burdens her down, everyone knows she's a wild card. Even Percy is treading eggshells around her. She feels alone, helpless. She knows it's the only chance, though. The only chance of uniting the two opposing demigod sides.

It isn't easy.

* * *

When Percy revealed his dream to her, she doesn't like it. It unsettles her, though sheHass no idea why. She may not know who the weaver is, but she sure as hell knew it wouldn't be good. She wished someone could go down with her, help her.

But it is her quest. She must face it alone.

* * *

The last moments with Percy seem like a dream. Not irrelevant. Just—distant. She still enjoys it. She's still there, mentally. She just feels like she's looking at herself do something—ironic, because those were the exact same words Leo used after he started the new Greco-Roman war.

* * *

Heading into the cave, she felt a trill of fear. She knows what awaits, and she doesn't want to face her—no, it. Her mother's ancient enemy is the only monster she ever feared. She could handle Ares, and she gave other beasts no hesitation.

But this. She didn't know if she was prepared for this.

* * *

Huddled against the wall, she beholds the beast, the primitive instinct telling her that, gods, she was an idiot. She shouldn't have come here.

Fear. Fear wasn't something she felt often. Not when facing monsters, not when going on life-threatening quests.

She did feel it, though. One name gave her the chills, one brood could reduce her to a crumbling wreck. Gods, she hated it. The helpless feeling, the despair. The weakness. It made her want to curl up in a ball and sob.

She couldn't, though. She had to retrieve the Athene Parthenos. It was the key to the quest. Not for the first time, she wished she was like her mother. A goddess. All powerful. She could get the statue out of here without a second thought. She could trap Arachne.

The solutions were endless. Her power, unfortunately, wasn't—being limited to a broken foot, a laptop, and her wits wasn't exactly helpful.

She looked back at the half-spider, and shivered. The weaving was mastery. The heart that wove it was not.

It's the sort of thing she only ever had nightmares about. She never would have believed that she would be facing her mother's greatest foe.

Her eyes set in determination. She'll get out of this, goddess or not. She is Annabeth Chase, and she doesn't give up.

* * *

I switched into second person quite a bit. Tell me if you catch anything.


	5. this is the end

this is the end

Written for TackAttack's Oneshot Challenge

Prompt: Depression

Words: 661

* * *

Percy had often wondered why kids killed themselves. There seemed to be no point. Life gets better. Now, though, he was seriously considering it. Boy, was it better than the alternative.

He cowered behind the couch, waiting for that call that meant that he was screwed.

He, for the first time ever, felt depression. Annabeth would snap, tell him to get out of it. Everyone always said that, Percy reflected melancholily.

"Just pull yourself out of it."

They didn't know, though. They didn't know the overwhelming, towering pain that shoots through you, that unnerving urge to grab the nearest deadly object and cause yourself harm.

For most, this meant kitchen knives. For Percy, this meant Riptide. Unfortunately, it was in his room, across from the consequence. He couldn't make it without being seen.

He looked mournfully at the crumbs in his hand. At least his last morsel had been delicious. He didn't know what he would do if it was something like, gods forbid, zucchini.

He snuck to the large TV set, and dove behind it. He lurked there for a little bit—which he hated, because lurking meant Octavian was rubbing off on him.

That would be worse than the consequence of his recent actions. Percy didn't want to end up as a psychotic teddy-bear murderer. That would just be—actually, he didn't want to think about it.

He waited for the inevitable, and knew that there was no escaping.

"Perseus Jackson!"

He knew he was dead the moment he gave the startled jerk. The offended turned their eye toward him, and he dashed for the hallway.

It was catching up, and he didn't have time to make it to his room. He threw himself into the nearest door, shut and locked it, and proceeded to barricade himself in.

It was sad, he reflected rather gloomily, that he had to die in a restroom. It could have at least been a guest room. His feeble barricade - the shower bar across the door handle - wouldn't last long.

It was a shame he never got to write his will. Tyson should have gotten that extra peanut butter jar.

The pounding on the door increased, and the angered screams doubled in volume.

Gods, now that his mom knew he stole the cookies, he was _so_ dead.

* * *

Paul was used to Percy's friends trooping in from everywhere, in all sorts of ways. So, when Nico shadow travelled into the living room, he was offered a seat and a glass of warm milk.

The Jackson residence was usually friendly, only abandoning that predisposition if he watched Death and Taxes for too long - he didn't understand why, as it was a great show - and he really didn't feel like stealing anyone's soul for dissing him.

He was happily sipping his milk when he heard a girls scream. He wondered for a brief moment if Jackson had finally gotten laid, and his mom found out. This theory was refuted by a screaming Percy hurtling out the door.

Oh well. It was wishful thinking.

He looked out the door, and wondered what on earth Percy was so scared of. He shrugged, and went back to his milk.

Sally stood in the hallway, beaming at him. The stereotypical mom image, though, was ruined by the large practice sword she held in her hand. Nico gulped, hoping she wasn't planning on using that.

"Hello, Nico. Would you like some cookies? I made a secret batch so Percy wouldn't eat them all."

He looked out the door. Perhaps he should help his cousin?

"That would be great, thanks."

Sally smiled, and gave him the cookies. Nico was glad, for once, that he wasn't like his dad. Who wants to sit in the underworld when you can be eating these delicious cookies?

He munched happily away, with neither care for the world or his wayward cousin.

* * *

The final entry.


End file.
